


i want to know what love is

by vtforpedro



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Hurt Crowley, Love Confessions, M/M, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Post-Apocalypse, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-12 02:43:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20132023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vtforpedro/pseuds/vtforpedro
Summary: In which Aziraphale notices Crowley isn't quite himself after the apocalypse that wasn't.





	i want to know what love is

It had happened during the witch burnings.  
  
1564 precisely, around nine in the evening.  
  
The witch burnings were a tragedy, of course, and truly utter nonsense. Aziraphale understood how mass hysteria would sometimes take over normally sensible people’s minds, but it was still heartbreaking to witness the death of so many people.  
  
Most people weren’t practicing witchcraft, but rather had progressive ideas that didn’t set well with their fellow townsmen. Some actually were witches, or at least practiced witchcraft, but they hardly deserved to die. Witchcraft wasn’t harmful, really.  
  
Aziraphale had found that most witches were actually very kind people who opened their doors to anyone.  
  
Others might have been mentally ill, something understood much better these days, but was thought to be the work of the devil so very long ago.  
  
Aziraphale remembers it as if it were yesterday. He can still see the pyre and smell the smoke. He can still picture the young lady’s face as she walked to the pyre, her head held high, but tears still shining brightly in her eyes.  
  
And then Crowley had come. Out of nowhere, as per usual. He had suddenly been at Aziraphale’s side, dressed properly for the times, a large mustache on his face. And he had snapped his fingers the moment the pyre was lit and sent the fire roaring after everyone but the young lady.  
  
Crowley had leapt up onto the pyre and declared she was no witch but that _he_ certainly was. They had believed him, seeing the devilry in his fire, and had fled with the promise to return with more weapons.  
  
Aziraphale and Crowley had helped the young lady flee with a man that she said was her lover in the meantime. By the time they had made sure she was safely out of the village, the villagers had been on the hunt for them.  
  
They had hidden themselves in the young lady’s home and made sure those that searched there always managed to skip over their hiding spot.  
  
It had been a tiny, cramped closet and they had been shoved together, uncomfortably so.  
  
Until Crowley had looked at him that way that he does, his yellow eyes bright and his pupils dilated and they’d been breathing each other’s air and Crowley had looked so very delectable…  
  
It had been fast and hectic in that small closet. They’d clung to each other and kissed and rocked together until it had ended and then, after that, well… after that, they went about their lives.  
  
Aziraphale had made it clear that they were an angel and a demon and it had been a one time sort of thing. They weren’t meant to be together and the world was hardly ready for that sort of thing, let alone their respective sides. They’d be hunted down and killed by nearly everyone and Aziraphale hadn’t been interested in the danger.  
  
He had seen the hurt on Crowley’s face, the anger in his eyes, but eventually Crowley had agreed and it had become something _off limits_ to speak about.  
  
So they never did.  
  
They went their separate ways but continued to come together throughout earth’s history, helping each other out of tight spots or causing miracles and mischief.  
  
They are friends, Aziraphale knows, even if it’s dangerous. He cares for Crowley very much and finds himself gazing at him more often than not, an odd fluttering he’s never felt before in his stomach.  
  
And he catches Crowley staring back at him sometimes, with that oddly soft look about him, until Crowley turns away or puts his sunglasses back on.  
  
Aziraphale isn’t completely blind to the tension between them. He’s felt it since that night in 1564 and it’s never completely gone away. He thinks it may just be him at this point, as Crowley never says or does anything that might show his own tension.  
  
But every once in a while, when they get into an argument, Crowley always seems as if he wants to say more than he does. But he will eventually walk or drive away in a huff and Aziraphale is left wondering.  
  
Modern times and the apocalypse itself comes before they can possibly be prepared for it and it all goes, as Crowley would say, tits up.  
  
They aren’t particularly competent when it comes to anything to do with the antichrist and pay for their mistakes in many different ways.  
  
But they grow closer, Aziraphale knows. They are spending more time together than ever before, even helping to rear the same child for many years. He might have been the _wrong_ child but they’d still shared that same experience.  
  
And then Aziraphale had been told it was time to _take care of _Crowley and he had felt his heart do something it had never done before.  
  
It had broken in two.  
  
The idea that he was supposed to fight Crowley, to even try to destroy him, was far too much to take. He might have tried to tell Crowley they weren’t friends, but they were, the best of.  
  
The apocalypse had become the apocalypse that wasn’t without any bloodshed and, quite before Aziraphale had imagined it could happen, they’d been sharing a bottle of champagne at the Ritz.  
  
He thinks about what Crowley had said many, many times in the following few days.  
  
_I lost my best friend._  
  
And, Aziraphale thinks, he nearly did too. It makes his heart ache, to imagine a world without Crowley, and he feels the need to see Crowley at all times, to be at his side.  
  
He wants to shout from the rooftops how very much Crowley means to him.  
  
But… something is wrong.  
  
Crowley doesn’t come by the shop as often after the first week of the beginning of the rest of their lives. He still takes Aziraphale’s calls, but he’s standoffish and not as warm as he has been over the last eleven years.  
  
He seems to be avoiding seeing Aziraphale and he wonders if he has somehow offended Crowley. He’s much more touchy with his feelings than he pretends to be. But if Aziraphale has hurt him in some way, he must apologize and make it up to Crowley.  
  
He does so care for him.  
  
And not seeing him lately has been, well, hell on earth.  
  
Aziraphale buys a good bottle of bubbly and dresses in his finest waistcoat and trousers. He buys two slices of cheesecake from one of their favorite hole-in-the-walls and takes a taxi to Crowley’s.  
  
Aziraphale knows that coming over unannounced is rather rude, but he thinks they haven’t been through hell for nothing.  
  
“Hot date then?” the taxi driver asks.  
  
Aziraphale looks up as they park in front of Crowley’s home. “I hope so,” he says, before he realizes what the man has said. “No!” he says quickly. “Well, I mean. Perhaps. As friends. A friendship date!”  
  
The taxi driver merely raises his eyebrows, as if he knows better.  
  
Aziraphale blushes and coughs as he pays him, mumbling a thank you as he clambers out of the car. He hurries to the front door and glances over his shoulder to make sure the taxi driver is gone before he rings the doorbell.  
  
After a moment or so, the door opens and Crowley stands before him.  
  
Crowley is dressed in a luxurious, fluffy black robe, his feet bare, but his sunglasses still on his nose.  
  
They blink at each other for a time before Aziraphale holds up the bag and bottle. “I’ve brought bubbly and dessert. I thought we might… celebrate a little.”  
  
Crowley looks mildly pained as he shifts from foot to foot. “Celebrate what?”  
  
“Our new lives!”  
  
“Haven’t we done that… a few times already?” Crowley asks, something strained in his voice.  
  
“I suppose we have, but,” Aziraphale says, “there’s always time to celebrate more.”  
  
Crowley looks over his shoulder, then back at Aziraphale. “This isn’t really a good time.”  
  
Aziraphale is sure the crushing weight on his heart will pass. “Oh,” he says quietly. “Oh, of course. Should have called ahead, I suppose. I’m sorry. Do you have company?”  
  
He doesn’t know why he asks it, considering the answer may well upset him for the rest of the evening.  
  
Crowley scowls. “No,” he says. “It’s just me tonight.”  
  
“Ah,” Aziraphale says. “Well, erm... I do hope you have a good night. Take some cheesecake, at least.”  
  
Crowley looks between the bag Aziraphale hands to him and Aziraphale’s face. He groans and steps back, opening his door invitingly.  
  
“You can’t complain about what’s on the telly.”  
  
Aziraphale perks up and grins. “I won’t,” he says quickly. “But if you’d truly rather be by yourself, I understand.”  
  
“Get in, angel, before I leave you out in the cold.”  
  
“It’s rather balmy today, actually,” Aziraphale says as he steps inside of Crowley’s home. He breathes in deeply and blinks a little as he looks at Crowley. “Have you been cooking?”  
  
“A bit,” Crowley says, somewhat defensively. “Nothing for you.”  
  
“Well, of course not,” Aziraphale says, hurt, but trying not to show it. “I wouldn’t presume to ask you to feed me when I’ve brought cheesecake for us to eat.”  
  
Crowley grumbles to himself as he takes the bag and bottle from Aziraphale. Aziraphale follows him to the kitchen, feeling odd and… unwelcome, in a way he never has before.  
  
They step into the kitchen and Aziraphale gapes around it. He swallows and whispers, “Oh dear.”  
  
“What?” Crowley asks grumpily before he too gazes around. “Ah, yeah, haven’t cleaned up yet.”  
  
Aziraphale points at the ceiling before deciding not to comment on what looks like a splash of red sauce there.  
  
The kitchen is an utter disaster. It seems Crowley has used every pot and pan and utensil he owns, while coating any bare surface with food, rather than perhaps eating it.  
  
He’s seen Crowley cook before and he certainly does not make a mess like this at any other time. Something is certainly up.  
  
“What… did you make?” Aziraphale asks, attempting a conversational tone.  
  
“Boeuf Bourguignon,” Crowley says and looks uncomfortable.  
  
“Complicated?”  
  
“Very.”  
  
Aziraphale nods and clears his throat. “I’m sure it was worth it though.”  
  
“I threw it out.”  
  
Aziraphale gasps. “You what? Why?”  
  
“It wasn’t right,” Crowley says and snaps his fingers. The cork bursts out of the bottle of champagne and Aziraphale jumps rather nastily at the unexpected noise.  
  
Crowley pours two glasses and they take their cheesecakes into the living room. Crowley sits on the end of his sofa and Aziraphale takes the other, feeling awkward.  
  
He’s not sure he’s ever really felt awkward with Crowley around. It’s always been so incredibly natural and easy, but this feels rather like wading through a minefield.  
  
It’s confusing and there’s a pain in Aziraphale’s heart that has certainly never been there before. He tries to miracle it away, not sure what he’s looking for exactly, but he does nothing but make himself dizzy with the effort.  
  
They watch television and eat their cheesecake and drink their champagne, but it’s stilted with very little conversation.  
  
“What’s wrong, Crowley?” Aziraphale asks during a commercial break, feeling as if he may just explode.  
  
“Nothing,” Crowley says flatly and drinks half a glass of champagne in one swallow.  
  
“If it was nothing,” Aziraphale says slowly, “then we would be laughing and having a good time right now.”  
  
“It’s nothing,” Crowley says more stiffly. He’s sitting straight on the sofa, not lounging as he usually does, and that’s alarming in itself.  
  
“I understand if you don’t want to talk right now,” Aziraphale says. “But I wanted to say that I’m sorry. I’m very sorry.”  
  
Crowley frowns as he looks at Aziraphale. “Why?”  
  
“Because I’ve done something,” Aziraphale says sadly. “I’ve upset you, I know I have. And I’m sorry that I have. I hope that, one day, you can forgive me.”  
  
Crowley doesn’t say anything for a while. There’s a myriad of expressions on his face, ranging from confusion to shock and finally, some sort of acceptance mingled with anger.  
  
“I don’t know that I can.”  
  
So that’s what humans mean, when they say a dagger through the heart.  
  
Aziraphale swallows dryly and looks down at his lap. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he says. “Is there anything I can do?”  
  
“Be sorry for the right thing!” Crowley snaps, his lips twisted in a scowl.  
  
Aziraphale looks at him and blinks for a time. “The right thing?” he asks. “But… I don’t know what I’ve done.”  
  
“You think you’ve said something offensive recently but you haven’t! You’re only offensive when you aren’t meaning to be, aren’t you?”  
  
“Crowley,” Aziraphale says. “I’m afraid I’m very confused.”  
  
Crowley leaps from the sofa and paces the room, his shoulders stiff with tension and his hands clenched at his sides.  
  
“You and your politeness and what’s_ right,” _Crowley says. “Who bloody cares about what’s right? Who even gets to say what’s right? Why just you, and not me?”  
  
Aziraphale sits very still, thinking that if he moves he’ll scare Crowley, but he is still woefully confused. “I don’t understand. What have I done, Crowley?”  
  
“It’s what you haven’t done!” Crowley shouts as he throws his arms in the air. He takes his sunglasses off and tosses them aside, his yellow eyes flashing brilliantly in the low light of the living room as he glares at Aziraphale. “It’s your lack of doing!”  
  
“Doing what, my dear?” Aziraphale asks desperately. “Tell me and I’ll do whatever you’d like.”  
  
“It’s not only what I’d like,” Crowley says and sounds more miserable than ever. “It’s what I think _we’d_ like.”  
  
“And what’s that?” Aziraphale asks, feeling as if he’s standing on the edge of a precipice.  
  
Crowley sighs and his entire body seems to slump over. “I see the way you look at me,” he says very quietly. “And I know you see the way I look at you.”  
  
Aziraphale lightly gasps. He stares at Crowley with his mouth hanging open, but Crowley is staring down at his coffee table. He looks as if he awaits his execution and Aziraphale certainly can’t let that go on.  
  
“How… how do I look at you?” he asks uncertainly.  
  
Crowley sniffs. “Like I’ve hung the bloody sun whenever I do something you like, which seems to be often enough. Like I’m unique, one of a kind, like I mean something more to you than everyone else between heaven and hell does.”  
  
Aziraphale leans back against the sofa as he gazes at Crowley.  
  
He’s right, he realizes. Crowley is unique, one of a kind, and he certainly means something more to Aziraphale than anyone else ever possibly could.  
  
He means the absolute world to Aziraphale, and it hits him squarely in the chest as he realizes it.  
  
Of course.  
  
“Crowley,” he says slowly. “May I ask you a question?”  
  
Crowley snorts. “Why not?”  
  
“What does love feel like?”  
  
“You’re an angel, don’t you know?”  
  
“What does love feel like to _you?”_  
  
Crowley comes around and sits on the end of the sofa again. He stares down at his hands as he wrings them together.  
  
“It means _you,”_ he says simply, then frowns. “It means you on a warm spring day, with the scent of flowers in the air. It means you, when you shake your finger at me after I do something you’d call mischief making. It means you, when no one else will look at me, but you always do. It means you seeing me, when no one else can. It means sharing my Boeuf Bourguignon with you and it not feeling right without you.”  
  
Aziraphale’s eyes feel wet.  
  
Crowley is right. Of course he is. It’s been there for so long, these feelings, developed over a long period of time. So long that Aziraphale hadn’t been able to recognize them, even when they’re burning under his skin.  
  
He stands and moves to Crowley, kneeling down in front of him. He carefully takes one of Crowley’s hands and Crowley lets him, but he doesn’t meet Aziraphale’s eyes.  
  
“Love to me means _you,”_ Aziraphale says, his voice thick with long held emotion. “It means you, on a cold winter’s night, snuggled in front of the fire. It means you, when you indulge me in what I like. It means you, speaking sense into me the way that no one else does.”  
  
Crowley looks at Aziraphale then, his eyes bright with unshed tears. “And what does it mean, together?”  
  
“It means,” Aziraphale says with a smile, “a love to last all of our lifetimes.” He squeezes Crowley’s hand. “I’m so sorry, my dear. I’m sorry for pushing you away and for never bringing you back to me. I’m sorry for being so utterly blind to my own feelings, let alone yours.”  
  
“You don’t see a lot,” Crowley says with a crooked smile. “When you don’t want to.”  
  
“I suppose not,” Aziraphale admits. “But now, my dear Crowley, my eyes are wide open.”  
  
Crowley laughs and squeezes Aziraphale’s hand in return. “Well, mine have been for a long time,” he says breezily. “Which means I’m more than ready for you to kiss me.”  
  
“Gladly,” Aziraphale says. He leans up and takes Crowley’s face in his hands, pulling him down until their lips meet.  
  
It’s a slow, sensual kiss, getting to know each other’s lips after so long, and it may last seconds or minutes.  
  
Aziraphale pulls away after a time and sits next to Crowley, allowing himself to be closer than ever before. He tentatively wraps his arm around Crowley’s shoulders, but Crowley leans into him with a smile.  
  
“You are the most lovely person I have ever seen,” Aziraphale admits in a rush.  
  
Crowley’s cheeks darken but he’s grinning. “That’s funny,” he says. “I was just thinking the same about you.”  
  
And what more can they do then, but kiss?   
  
They have hundreds of years to catch up on, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Another fic in just a few hours, what?? I'm obsessed with these two. Hope you all like it. Kudos and comments are really, really appreciated. Thanks!
> 
> [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/vtforpedro)


End file.
